


cancel your reservations

by renaissance



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Sports, Comedy of Errors, Fencing, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Miscommunication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 13:25:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11253864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/pseuds/renaissance
Summary: Yuuri is a college student conducting private fencing lessons for a handsome, rich, and mysterious student. Viktor is not learning to fence because he does medieval reenactments.





	cancel your reservations

**Author's Note:**

> loosely based on [this prompt](http://writing-prompt-s.tumblr.com/post/161843785645/youve-been-dating-your-partner-for-six-months) and another idea i've been nursing for literally months. i wrote this entire thing in the space of a few hours (inspiration struck) so it's unbeta'd and any errors are my bad. ~~it's kinda late now so i'll add a glossary of fencing terms and add some more notes on the setting etc tomorrow.~~ i just really wanted to post something light-hearted :')
> 
> (title is from carly rae's "cut to the feeling" which is 100% ao3 user reginar's fault)
> 
> edit: the fencing glossary is now in the end notes!

It starts with one confusing sentence: “Viktor Nikiforov needs someone to teach him how to fence.”

Yuuri has been in America for some years now, and he thought he was getting the hang of the language, but this stumps him. Why had Celestino felt the need to say this person’s full name, and why is he telling Yuuri?

The second question is answered first. “I thought about taking him on myself, but I have a lot on my plate with semester just starting,” Celestino says. “So how about it? You’re my best student, Yuuri, and it would be a good opportunity for you to learn some coaching skills.”

“I’m flattered,” Yuuri says, “but I don’t think I can accept. Surely Chris, or Phichit—”

“Is it because of who he is?” Celestino interrupts. When Yuuri looks at him in confusion, he adds, “Don’t go getting intimidated, now. Not you of all people.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “I think I’m too nervous to be someone’s coach.”

“I think you might surprise yourself,” Celestino says. “And if you’re nervous, just remember—you can always put on the mask.”

 

* * *

 

Yuuri had almost been a competitive figure skater. He’d wanted to use his background in dance to propel him into something athletic, combining his natural musicality and physical stamina, so skating seemed like the perfect fit, but—they were all such performers, yet somehow none of it spoke to Yuuri the way he wanted it to. Fencing came to him by accident, when he missed out by mere minutes on signing up for a term of sport at school, and there was only one sport with places left.

It turned out to be the perfect fit. Fencing had rules just like figure skating, rules for movement and timing, and it drew on all the grace Yuuri had learnt as a dancer. And for someone who was usually too embarrassed to show his face, fencing offered the perfect disguise.

The mask.

 

* * *

 

The first time Yuuri meets Viktor, he’s already wearing his mask. Just in case. He can’t wear his glasses to fence and his eyes have never taken well to contacts, so all he sees of Viktor is a tall, blurry man with grey hair.

“You must be Yuuri,” Viktor greets. His voice—very smooth, and with a light accent, not that Yuuri’s paying attention to how sensual Viktor sounds—is much younger than his hair. “Celestino said I would find you here.”

“That’s right,” Yuuri says, extending a hand for Viktor to shake. Viktor has very soft hands.

Yuuri leads him out of the main gym area and into one of the smaller, more private practice rooms, which the dance students had happy relinquished when Yuuri told them he needed it for private lessons. Somehow, this was deemed gossip-worthy. Yuuri isn’t sure why the fascination—unless it has something to do with the last time he went to a party hosted by the dance club, which he is not going to _think_ about—so he takes it without question. Now, he’s masking-taped a _piste_ to the floor and picked out a range of plastrons, jackets, gloves, and masks for Viktor to try on.

“I’ve laid out some equipment for you, so I thought we could get started on—”

“This is a foil, right?” Yuuri watches helplessly as Viktor picks up a blade and swings it around. “I want to use an épée.”

Yuuri makes a quick grab for the foil, but it remains in Viktor’s grasp, so Yuuri settles for clawing at Viktor’s wrist, kind of like an angry but ultimately impotent kitten. “Usually we save the épée for more advanced students.”

“That’s alright,” Viktor says, “I don’t need to know how to beat an Olympian, just the feel of it. And the épée is much closer to what I’ll be using for this job.”

This goes some way to explaining why Viktor couldn’t be put in the beginners’ class with the other novices. For one, he’s definitely a mature-age student, and if he’s learning this for a job… well, he must work at one of those medieval reenactment restaurants, or something.

“Okay,” Yuuri says slowly. “Um, the rules are different for each sword, but I think it’s worth getting used to the motions with a foil first. For a start—you’re holding it all wrong.”

Viktor shrugs. “You’re the expert.”

They go from there. Viktor relinquishes the foil so he can get himself geared up, donning a mask as well even though neither of them really need it at this stage, and then lets Yuuri guide him through the hand positions. Yuuri is not usually a tactile person—except after a few drinks—but he finds that in this one-on-one context it’s much easier to manipulate Viktor’s arm from _prime_ through _octave_ by guiding him physically.

Thankfully, Viktor catches on quickly. He has an athletic build, that much Yuuri can tell through the grill of his mask and without his glasses. Every time Viktor lunges, Yuuri revises his age estimate downward by a few years. By the time they finish, Viktor is thirty years old, maybe twenty-nine. He’s thoroughly winded, though, sitting down on the bench beside the spare gear.

“Wow.” Viktor pulls off his mask with a flourish and tips his head back. “I’m exhausted. I had no idea swinging a sword around would be such hard work.”

Yuuri has to laugh. “You shouldn’t have applied for this job, then.”

“Oh, I don’t mean it like that,” Viktor says, his blurry features softening into a smile. “It’s rewarding. I’m already looking forward to our next lesson, Yuuri!”

“Me too.”

As much as Yuuri hates to admit that Celestino was right, coaching someone _is_ a lot of fun, especially starting from the basics. And Viktor is amiable, a receptive learner. Yuuri feels like he should reciprocate that communication; he bends down by his bag, thrown against the wall just next to where Viktor is sitting, and fishes for his glasses case. Then, he pulls off his mask.

When he fixes his glasses onto the bridge of his nose and looks up at Viktor, he discovers something incredibly important: Viktor is _handsome_. Yuuri hastily revises his age estimate down another few years. Viktor has impossibly blue eyes and a pointy nose and lips that are just asking to be kissed and, more importantly, he’s looking at Yuuri with the exact same wide-eyed awe Yuuri knows is displayed on his own face.

In fact, they are both staring. Yuuri is not a romantic, but in this precise moment he decides, for better or worse, that falling in love mightn’t be such a bad thing, if it’s with Viktor Nikiforov.

It’s a good long moment before either of them manage words. Yuuri opens his mouth to apologise, but Viktor beats him to it, saying, “Can I take you out for dinner?”

“Can you— _what_?”

“Oh my god, I’m being unprofessional,” Viktor says, flustered. “I know you’re meant to be my coach, but you’re so… beautiful? Am I being creepy? Just tell me if I’m being creepy. I’ve never really done this before.”

Yuuri covers his face with both his hands, palms leaving smudges across his glasses. This is unequivocally both the best and worst day of his life.

Viktor sighs. “You know what? Forget I said any of that. Can I take you out for dinner as thanks? For teaching me to fence?”

At last, Yuuri finds his words. He uncovers his face and says, “You can take me out for dinner as—as a date, if you want.”

The smile that lights up Viktor’s face is so electric that Yuuri feels all his hairs stand on end. It’s definitely just his smile. And his dimples. Nothing else.

“Wonderful! Then it’s a date!”

 

* * *

 

“Well?” Celestino asks. “How did you find Viktor?”

Celestino isn’t a fortune teller and he isn’t a matchmaker. There’s no way he could’ve predicted that Yuuri would go into his first coaching experience jittery with nerves and hiding behind a mask and come out the other end with a cute guy’s phone number.

“He’s nice,” Yuuri says.

“I was surprised,” Celestino says, nodding in agreement. “He’s very down to earth, when his head isn’t in the clouds. Will you be seeing him again?”

Yuuri’s expression must give something away, because Celestino’s eyebrows shoot right up into his crinkling forehead. But all Yuuri says is, “We haven’t made a time, but yes.”

 

* * *

 

On their first date, Yuuri learns two very important things about Viktor. The first is that he has expensive taste. The second is that he can _afford_ it.

Viktor tells Yuuri he’ll drive by to pick him up, and Yuuri assumes that means Viktor will swing by Yuuri’s college in his car and Yuuri will get in the front seat and then on their way back Viktor will stop outside the college, engine idling, and lean over the gear shift to kiss Yuuri goodnight.

What Yuuri gets instead is a text: _we’re downstairs! ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥_

_We?_

He chances a glimpse through his curtains, looking out onto the driveway out front of the college, and there is the fanciest car he’s ever seen outside of on a screen at the movies. It’s a glossy black stretch limo with tinted windows; one of the back windows is rolled down, and Yuuri can distinctly see Viktor leaning out of it, phone in hand. Thankfully he doesn’t look up and notice Yuuri, because Yuuri is in the process of leaping back from his window, hyperventilating. Was Viktor wearing a suit? He was totally wearing a suit. Yuuri is still in his track pants.

Five minutes and one hasty wardrobe change later—the suit that Yuuri was saving for his graduation, a going away gift from Minako, his old ballet teacher—Yuuri finally replies to Viktor’s text to say that he’s on his way down. He counts his deep breaths and lists his coping mechanisms. It’ll be fine.

“Yuuri!” Viktor almost falls forward out of the limousine window, waving with both arms. “I was worried you didn’t get my text.”

“I got it,” Yuuri says. “I was, um—”

Viktor scoots away from the window and clicks the door open, gesturing for Yuuri to get in beside him. Well, that’s something. At least there’s no uniformed butler coming to hold the door for him. Yuuri gets in, and clears his throat.

“You know, when you said you were picking me up, I assumed it would be in your own car.”

The limo starts up, driving out onto the street. “Oh, no,” Viktor says, “I can’t drive.”

Yuuri lets this sink in. His—his _date_ can’t drive, so he hired a limo. What has Yuuri gotten himself into? He balls his hands into fists and places them very firmly onto his knees. He side-eyes Viktor, sitting there all casual in his impeccably tailored navy-blue suit, and feels like a sack of potatoes by comparison.

“You look lovely,” Viktor says.

“You don’t need to lie.”

Viktor shrugs. “Okay, your tie is kind of ugly. But that’s fine. I’ll buy you another one. Or five. And a couple more suits too. We can go shopping on our next date, hmm?”

“How much money do you _have_?” Yuuri asks, because it’s that or ask Viktor why he thinks there’ll be a next date after this masterclass in culture shock.

Viktor shrugs again. “A bit.”

“I shouldn’t have asked,” Yuuri says, looking down at his feet.

The next thing he knows, one of Viktor’s hands is closing over Yuuri’s whitening knuckles. “Hey, if it’s making you uncomfortable, we can do something else. We can just fool around back here. That screen is solid, and there’s a security camera, but I can cover it with your ugly tie.”

A perverse thought crosses Yuuri’s mind—if this is Viktor’s choice of car, then where exactly has he made their reservation for dinner?

“Sorry about—all this,” Yuuri says, gesturing to himself. “I’ll stop freaking out soon. This is really nice of you.”

“It’s fine,” Viktor says. He lets out a dramatic sigh, dropping his head onto Yuuri’s shoulder. “You’ll have to forgive me too. I’m afraid I’ve never been on a date before. It’s all very new to me.”

Yuuri finds that hard to believe, given how unfairly good looking Viktor is. Good looking and obscenely wealthy, apparently. What he’s doing working as a medieval reenactor, Yuuri has no idea. He hazards a question: “How old are you?”

“Oh, don’t make fun of me!” Viktor says, leaping up so fast he nearly gives Yuuri second-hand whiplash. “There are lots of twenty-five year olds who’ve never been on dates!”

Twenty-five. Yuuri’s final guess was right after all. And he can’t resist teasing Viktor a bit, saying, “Well, I’m twenty-one, and I’ve been on more dates than I can count.”

He doesn’t mention that none of them ever turned into anything lasting, and he’s terrified that the same will come of this.

“That’s not a fair comparison,” Viktor says, pouting. “You’re—you know.”

Actually, Yuuri has no idea. Is Viktor implying that Yuuri is significantly more of a catch than he is? That can’t be right. Is he implying that because Yuuri’s poor, he’s spent his life in the real world rather than whatever weird rich medievalist isolation Viktor’s been living in? That’s a bit more believable.

“I’m nobody special,” Yuuri settles on saying. “I mean, I’ve never so much as _seen_ a limo before.”

“Offer’s still open if you want to take advantage of it,” Viktor says.

Yuuri fixes him with a look. “I’ll forgive your ignorance, since apparently you’ve never done this before, but I don’t fuck on the first date.”

Oh god, why did he have to say it like that? For a moment Yuuri thinks he’s lost Viktor, but then Viktor bursts into laughter. He has a really crude laugh, like a snort trying to pretend it’s a cackle and getting lost somewhere in between a chortle and a snicker. Yuuri thinks it’s beautiful.

In under ten seconds, though, Viktor flicks back to being smooth. “How about the second date?”

“We’ll see,” Yuuri says, trying to sound haughty, but he can’t help laughing too.

They get to to the restaurant not long after. Yuuri isn’t outside the limo long enough to catch its name, because Viktor’s driver steps out to let them in, and the maître d’ doesn’t ask questions, just ushers them through the restaurant and to a private room at the back, overlooking the coast and the shimmering sea, picturesque and framed by palm trees.

Viktor orders champagne.

“Oh—oh no, I can’t—”

“You don’t drink?” Viktor looks confused. “But you’re twenty-one.”

“No, I drink,” Yuuri says. “It’s, um—champagne is kind of my worst enemy. It goes right to my head.”

Viktor leans across the table—which isn’t far, because he insisted on sitting right next to Yuuri, their knees pressed together. “Just one glass?”

Yuuri shuts his eyes. “Yeah. Okay. Just one glass.”

 

* * *

 

“So how much champagne _did_ you have?” Phichit asks. He’s come from his dorm across the corridor with a glass of water and a pack of painkillers, and listened patiently to Yuuri recounting his date.

Yuuri doesn’t deserve a friend this kind. He groans. “Um, I lost count? Don’t worry, I didn’t black out, or anything—and Viktor was a perfect gentleman.”

“Viktor? That’s the name of the guy who asked you out?” Phichit furrows his eyebrows in confusion for a second before his face lights up in recognition. “As in, Viktor Nikiforov? Who you’re coaching? You didn’t tell me how that went, by the way. I’m still waiting for all the gossip.”

Oh, right—Yuuri had been trying to keep most of the details to himself, in case it didn’t work out. Well, now _that_ cat is out of the bag.

“Yeah, that Viktor,” he says. “Celestino told you about him?”

Phichit’s jaw drops.

“What?” Yuuri says. “It’s not a big deal.”

 

* * *

 

A week later, Celestino asks Yuuri very seriously, “Do you think you can keep coaching him efficiently now that you’re dating?”

Yuuri has no idea how he found out, but it could’ve been Phichit, or Chris, or those first years who’d caught Yuuri and Viktor making out around the back of the gym last week.

“It’s not a problem for me,” Yuuri says, “and I don’t think it is for Viktor either.”

Celestino seems skeptical, but he doesn’t argue. “If you’re sure.”

 

* * *

 

After their fourth session, Viktor’s fencing has improved noticeably. He still can’t keep up with Yuuri, but that’s to be expected, even when Yuuri is going easy on him.

“How was I?” Viktor asks, pulling his mask off his face.

Yuuri will never get over the sight of Viktor like this, dressed in a slouchy tracksuit and his hair damp with sweat, clinging to his face like seaweed. It’s such a different look from the Viktor who takes him out to restaurants with unpronounceable names, dressed up to the nines and smelling of cologne so artfully subtle that it’s probably worth more than Yuuri’s entire sports scholarship.

Keeping his eyes on Viktor, Yuuri takes off his mask too. He’s still wearing it all through their lessons, but for entirely different reasons now—if he takes it off, he’s inclined to kiss Viktor silly, and then they’d never get anything done.

“You’re so much better,” he says honestly. “I think you’re almost ready to switch to épée.”

Viktor wipes the sweat from his eyes. “Have you been stalling because you want to spend more time with me, Yuuri?”

“I would never do that,” Yuuri says, dishonestly. “I’ve never coached anyone before, so I guess I’m playing it safe.”

That, and this really is one of the few times they get to see each other—it seems like whenever Yuuri is free from class and unburdened by assignments, Viktor has some work commitment. Or maybe it’s family. It’s hard to tell with Viktor. But that’s okay. Yuuri likes the air of mystery. It makes him feel like a Bond girl.

“Well, we can spend all of tonight together,” Viktor says. “I made sure my schedule was totally clear. I was thinking of going somewhere new for dinner, maybe—”

“I have an idea,” Yuuri interrupts. He takes Viktor’s silence as interest, and goes on. “Why don’t we go back to my dorm and order pizza? It may not be what you’re used to, but you can stay the night, if you want.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Viktor says, “I would love to.”

“It’s a different sort of luxury,” Yuuri says. He knows Viktor will be disappointed, but he can try to mitigate that as much as possible. They’re a couple, after all, and if they’re going to stay a couple then Viktor will need to get used to Yuuri’s impoverished international student lifestyle.

The universe, however, is not willing to let Yuuri get away with this so easily. Once they’re changed back into normal clothes, Yuuri takes Viktor by the hand and leads him across campus towards the dorms. After a few uncomfortable minutes, Yuuri starts to notice that something is off. Specifically, he is being watched. He and Viktor are being watched by _everyone_ , wherever they go. Yuuri understands that Viktor is good looking, but really? This is a bit excessive.

Back at the college, it’s even worse. They’re not holding hands anymore—maybe that’s why people were staring—but when they pass the common room, people stick their heads out, and as they head up to Yuuri’s room, doors keep opening, people keep stepping outside for a few seconds then going back in, or crossing the hallways to other people’s rooms. By the time they reach Yuuri’s room, he’s so frustrated that he nearly jumps out of his skin when Phichit’s door opens.

“Oh—it’s just you.”

“What do you mean, it’s just me?” Phichit says, poking out his tongue. “Leo texted me that you were back with your _boyfriend_ , so I—Viktor, hi, I’m Yuuri’s handler. You can call me Phichit. Can I get a selfie with you for my Insta?”

Yuuri is about to protest on Viktor’s behalf—Phichit and his social media can be too much sometimes—but Viktor grins easily and says, “Of course.”

“Oh my god, thank you,” Phichit says. “Not to show off, but like, my fifty-k followers are going to lose their shit.”

Okay, Yuuri gets it. Viktor looks like a supermodel. But he’s _Yuuri’s boyfriend_ , not someone for Phichit to show off to his massive Instagram following. As soon as they’re done with the selfie and small-talk, Yuuri yanks Viktor by the wrist and pulls him away.

“Not to cut this short, but we’re on a very tight schedule,” he says. That tight schedule includes fucking twice before dinner, but Phichit doesn’t need to know that. The walls here are surprisingly thick. “You and Viktor can hang out some other time.”

“You’re so cute when you’re jealous,” Phichit says, teasing.

“I agree,” Viktor says, his gaze trailing up and down Yuuri’s body. Not looking away, he says, “See you later, Phichit.”

Yuuri pulls him in and shuts the door. Let other people talk—he has made it abundantly clear that Viktor is _his_.

 

* * *

 

Later, Viktor drapes himself over Yuuri, still completely naked, and says, “I have a favour to ask of you.”

Yuuri would do just about anything for Viktor when he’s naked. The only reason he’s not naked too is because someone had to go out and pick up the pizza delivery. That, at least, keeps his inhibitions at their normal level—or as normal as they could ever be around Viktor—and he holds himself back from agreeing outright. “What is it?”

“I have a work event next week,” Viktor says. “It’s a film screening. Very boring, but you know how these things are. I want you to be my date.”

“Of course,” Yuuri says. “Is that it? You sound worried.”

“I _am_ worried,” Viktor says, and he sounds sincere, but the string of cheese hanging from the corner of his mouth isn’t helping his case. “I’ve met your friends, but you’ve never met any of my—well, colleagues. Not so much friends. Still… it’ll be very public. Are you sure you’re okay with that?”

In for a penny, in for a pound. “Viktor, I know we’ve only been together for two months, but you mean the world to me. If you want me to meet your colleagues, I will. I’m not _that_ jealous.”

He’s aiming for a joke. Viktor doesn’t laugh. “Wow,” he says. “I think I’m a little bit in love with you.”

Yuuri lifts his hand to wipe the cheese away from Viktor’s mouth.

“A _lot_ in love,” Viktor amends.

 

* * *

 

Viktor’s limo—a mode of transport Yuuri is getting worryingly comfortable with—comes by the college to pick Yuuri up at seven. Yuuri is wearing one of the new suits Viktor bought for him, charcoal grey and paired with a sleek maroon tie. He looks at himself in the mirror at the back of his dorm’s door and feels out of his own league.

Yuuri is coming to the realisation that he’s madly, properly in love with Viktor the same way a derailed train might crash into a forest fire. He’s terrified, and his heart is pounding.

“Stay calm,” he tells his reflection. “It’s just a movie date.”

In the backseat of the limo, Yuuri means to ask Viktor what kind of movie they’re seeing, but Viktor is all hands tonight. He crowds Yuuri up in one corner and kisses him deeply, fingers roaming through his hair and messing up all the effort he put into gelling it back.

“Ah—Viktor—”

“Yes?” Viktor breathes against Yuuri’s neck.

“I don’t want to interrupt,” Yuuri says, gasping as Viktor kisses him just below his earlobe, “but—um—no, wait, can we talk?”

“Of course,” Viktor says, although he doesn’t pull back too far, so he’s definitely reading the mood right. “What’s on your mind?”

“I wanted to double check, I guess,” Yuuri says. “I know you’re into, like, luxury, and stuff, but how formal is this event going to be? Oh, and what kind of movie is it?” He pauses, chuckling to himself. “I know you do some kind of reenactment work, but I’ve been wondering what kind of workplace does film screenings for its staff get-togethers, to be honest.”

Viktor is quiet for an alarmingly long time. At last, he opens his mouth, and—no, he’s closing it again. It’s another moment before he seems to find the words. “You… think I do reenactment work? Like at a medieval-themed restaurant?”

“Yeah?” As he says it, Yuuri is aware he doesn’t sound so sure of himself. “Why else would you need to learn fencing… ?”

“I, uh—” Viktor goldfishes for another few seconds, visibly bewildered. “Yuuri, this is going to sound bad, so please forgive me in advance, but… do you know who I am?”

 _Does_ Yuuri know who his boyfriend is? “You’re Viktor Nikiforov,” he hazards.

To his relief, Viktor nods. “That’s right. I’m _Viktor Nikiforov_.”

“Okay,” Yuuri says, “that’s a good start.”

Viktor does not look pleased with that answer. “You never wondered why I have a driver and a limousine? Why everyone stares at us when we go out together? Why I book private rooms at expensive restaurants?”

His voice gets more hysterical with each word, and as he speaks, Yuuri starts to piece together the clues into a not entirely pleasant picture.

“I thought you were just rich,” he says. “And, you know. Hot.”

“Rich and hot,” Viktor says, bemused. “I guess I’m both of those things.”

“So you’re—” Yuuri begins. He takes a moment to wrap his head around what he’s going to say next. “You’re famous?”

Viktor laughs his wonderful laugh and takes each of Yuuri’s hands in his. “Oh, Yuuri! Here I thought you didn’t care that I was famous—which I’ll admit was one of the things that first drew me to you, before you even took off your mask, but—you didn’t even _know_!”

This is, without exception, the most mortifying thing that has ever happened to Yuuri, and he’s been blackout drunk and stripped naked at multiple frat parties. He’s been dating a _celebrity_ for _two months_ and he had no idea. “You must think I’m an absolute idiot,” he says.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Viktor says, shaking his head. “I still love you. I love you so much, Yuuri, I—”

The limo stops for a traffic light.

“You’d better prepare yourself for the red carpet,” Viktor says.

“Red carpet,” Yuuri echoes. “Right.”

This is like something out of an anxiety dream. Red carpets mean paparazzi, and that means _more_ photos of Yuuri floating around the internet, and—oh god, what if there are already photos? He’s been out with Viktor, they’ve been around campus, and Yuuri has never followed celebrity news, he doesn’t even have an account on Instagram, despite Phichit’s pestering—and this explains Phichit’s eagerness to get a selfie with Viktor, and—

Before his thoughts can spiral too far, Viktor leans in and presses a light kiss to Yuuri’s lips.

“You look incredible tonight,” Viktor says. “Don’t think about it too much.”

Yuuri gulps, and nods. “One more question. This film we’re seeing tonight—”

“Yes, I’m in it,” Viktor says. He puts a finger to his lips. “Oh, I guess I played the main character!” Wrinkling his nose, he adds, “I had to get my dick out for this one. How embarrassing. Still, I suppose it’s nothing you haven’t seen.”

“And the fencing… ?”

“… is for my next film,” Viktor says. “We start shooting next month, but it’s mostly on location in LA, so we should have plenty of time to see each other. It’s a remake of _The Three Musketeers_ —I’m playing D’Artagnan!”

The reality of it is really starting to sink in. Yuuri, an absolute nobody, is dating a _movie star_. Celestino asked him to coach a movie star and Yuuri said _yes_ to such an outlandish request—but, if he had known, he probably wouldn’t have met Viktor, and, well. Yuuri doesn’t want to think about that world, where he and the love of his life are separated by their wildly different lifestyles and never meet. If this is what it takes to be with Viktor, then Yuuri will take it in his stride.

“Ready?” Viktor asks.

Yuuri is certain, now. “Ready.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Yuuri wakes up in the fancy double bed in Viktor’s fancy, minimalist apartment. Ordinarily, he would have been more excited to look around Viktor’s apartment, seeing it for the first time, but they were coming home from the after-party, buzzed on champagne, and Yuuri had sat through just under two torturous hours of dividing his attention between the Viktor on the big screen and the Viktor sitting next to him—a hard task, especially during the sex scene—so all he wanted to do when they got back was engage in a bit of a reenactment.

Now, though—the clock by Viktor’s bed reads that it’s just after midday, and Viktor is nowhere to be seen. Yuuri can smell coffee, though, so he thinks it’s a safe bet that Viktor is around somewhere.

He’s still getting his head around it. The apartment is exactly what he would’ve expected from Viktor when he thought he was just an eccentric rich medievalist. Knowing that this place belongs to a movie star makes a lot more sense, though. The pristine white walls are lined with movie posters, most of them featuring Viktor, as young as maybe ten or eleven in some of them, but Yuuri is surprised to see bookshelves too, and a number of books in Russian which he assumes are the classics—surely nothing but _War and Peace_ could be that thick.

Yuuri comes upon Viktor in the kitchen, as impeccably clean as everywhere else. He’s expecting Viktor’s warm welcome, but—

“You have some explaining to do,” Viktor says. He’s squinting down at his phone. “There are pictures of us on the red carpet last night—we look very good together, by the way—but you won’t believe what some of these articles are saying.”

“What are they saying?” Yuuri asks. He’s dreading the answer.

“I’ll read it out to you,” Viktor says. “ _After weeks of being spotted around town with a beau, Nikiforov finally brought his boyfriend out in public to the premiere of his latest film_.”

“That’s not so bad,” Yuuri says, “is it?”

“ _Nikiforov’s boyfriend didn’t speak in any interviews on the red carpet_ ,” Viktor continues, “ _but a few keen sports fans recognised him easily as Japanese fencer Yuuri Katsuki, current Épée World Champion, two-time Olympian, and recent gold medallist at London 2012_. A gold medal, Yuuri? _World champion_? And you didn’t tell me?”

Yuuri’s head is pounding; now he understands how Viktor must’ve felt last night. “I thought you knew! In our first lesson together, you said you just needed the basics, you didn’t need to be able to defeat an Olympian. I assumed you were talking about me.”

“I was being dramatic,” Viktor says. He lets out an exasperated sigh, but he’s smiling. “Do you have any more secrets I need to know?”

“It’s hardly a secret,” Yuuri says. “You could’ve googled me.”

“You could’ve googled _me_ ,” Viktor shoots back. Childishly, he adds, “Actors are more recognisable than athletes, you know.”

“Guess I’ll have to get used to being recognised, then,” Yuuri says.

After all, this is only the beginning—Yuuri imagines his future full of film screenings and red carpets, fancy restaurants and limos and champagne, and he imagines taking Viktor to competitions, introducing him to all his friends and showing him off to his rivals. The thought is freeing, like taking off his mask at the end of a long bout.

“If you’re nervous,” Viktor says, “I’ll be there to look out for you. And I promise we’ll talk about things, now. Properly.”

Viktor holds out a hand and Yuuri takes it, allowing Viktor to draw it back towards him and kiss Yuuri’s knuckles. It’ll be hard, Yuuri knows that much, finding time when their schedules match up and adjusting to each other’s spotlights—especially given that Viktor is _much_ more famous than Yuuri—but if Yuuri wakes up to this every day, to the gentle and amorous Viktor the cameras don’t get to see, then it’ll be more than worth it.

Yuuri opens his mouth to reciprocate that promise, but what comes out is, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“And I with you,” Viktor says, a broad smile across his face. “Now, since you don’t need an excuse to see me anymore, what do you say about teaching me to wield an épée?”

**Author's Note:**

> glossary:
> 
>   * one round in fencing is called a bout.
>   * a _piste_ is the arena in which bouts are fought; it's like a long, narrow rectangle, and you can't move outside it. basically you're restricted to straight-line movement.
>   * continuing the theme of restricted movements, there are eight standard hand positions in fencing, named after the cardinal numbers in french. _prime_ and _octave_ are the two i mentioned here.
>   * there's a lot of gear involved in fencing but perhaps the only one that needs explanation in this fic is the plastron, a half-jacket which you wear over your sword arm and which adds an extra layer of protection.
>   * the three swords used in competitive fencing today are the foil, the épée, and the sabre (not mentioned in this fic.) i learnt to fence with a foil and it's definitely the most common for beginners. viktor wants to learn épée because it's the sword type most closely related to the french rapier, which a musketeer would've worn slung around his waist. also, in modern fencing, there's a very restricted target area on the body for a valid scoring blow, but with épée you can hit wherever. since yuuri fences without his glasses, i made him primarily an épée fencer so that he could have a bit of leeway on that account.
> 



End file.
